The Lockheart Project
by A. James Robin
Summary: I'm Tifa Lockheart, and this is my book of poetry. At first, I was the only author, but I never knew that my friends and enemies had written so many good poems as well! This is a collection of the best poetry in Midgar. This is 'The Lockheart Project.'
1. What Happens

What Happens?- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

What happens  
when in the dead of night,  
Marlene has a fright,  
runs toward the light,  
and sees me bound with cuffs?

What happens  
when she looks around,  
hears a friendly sound,  
and realizes Cloud  
is the one who tied up 'mommy'?

What happens  
when she isn't mine,  
she's only turning nine,  
and I have to say "It's fine.  
This is completely normal?"

What happens  
when she sees how I play,  
and gives herself away,  
before I get to say  
'birds, bees, and what happens?'


	2. The Cloak

The Cloak- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

The rage is like a hurricane  
inside of a bowl,  
where the waves must vanish  
to keep to their own.  
It will always spill over,  
depends where it's placed  
if it will cause enough damage  
to leave hope erased.

Looking better every day,  
but the garments don't fit,  
and the thought of you leaving  
tears away at my wit.  
All of my hopes  
were left unattended,  
and I tossed away the cloak  
that I should have mended.

Being independent is so hard to do.  
It's harder to be free than not to.


	3. Pills

Pills- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

I tried pills once,  
sure that it would be the cure  
to all I live without.  
But there's a hitch in the scheme:  
I cannot take them down.  
I've never been good at swallowing  
a thing that doesn't belong.

I tried pills once,  
but they refused to go down my throat.  
Too much money anyway.  
I'm much too smart for that.  
I know all about cash,  
cents, and cent's ability:  
Not that much, really.


	4. The Flash Drive

**The Flash Drive- A poem by Yuffie Kisaragi**

On this little disk  
lies a healthy risk,  
an undertaking of love:  
Vincent's trust  
that he thought well enough  
To write me a letter from home.

I long for the words  
'I love you, you know',  
and all I must do is put in  
this little drive,  
and then beautiful you  
and your words will pop up on the screen.

My heart leaps with joy  
as the drive blinks red,  
a sign that everything's working.  
Imagine my rage  
when the idiot page  
says 'Sorry, your drive is corrupted.'


	5. The Mission Bell

The Mission Bell- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Now I know how it feels  
to take the thorns and the spears  
in my side, like the man  
with the nails in his hands.  
This is my crucifixion,  
early morning benediction.  
I run through clouds of freezing hail,  
chasing the mission bell,  
just to get to the end  
of the torturing wind  
and hear the phrase,  
'Now for the second phase.'  
I bounce in ways that Yuffie could  
only dream of, knock on wood.  
To steal a line, forgive me Dan,  
I have no fear of drowning.  
It's the breathing  
that's taking all this work.


	6. The Well Runneth Dry

The Well Runneth Dry- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

In a sense, a bucket,  
floating down the stream  
comes easily, free,  
only for me,  
but I have to know why.  
The well runneth dry.

Called by the pen,  
ordained by ink,  
led by the red hands,  
so many fans.  
I cover my face  
with my wings in disgrace.

A bookstore, common  
people read much.  
A thousand books  
all sit on the hooks.  
Such a writer's chance.  
Will they take a dance?

The bookstore walls stretch on for years,  
but are they willing to share our tears?  
Music is king, and poetry's high.  
The novelist well runneth dry.


	7. They Have No Clue

They have no clue- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

It amuses me  
to see the faces go by  
that have no clue  
about my source of spare cash.

Every patron  
passes by like they always  
have, and they are none  
the wiser. I wish someone knew.

Which one condemns,  
which one watches gleefully?  
Which one has me  
picked out for a fantasy?

Which one gets off  
like a bottle rocket  
when their eyes see?  
Is it a friend? Is it me?


	8. You're Not Ready For Me Yet

You're Not Ready For Me Yet- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Your job has been stripped,  
and I strip for a job.  
You sip, and I toss back a few.  
You play house with Vinny  
and flirt on the side.  
I placed my attention on you.

You used to be hardcore.  
Vin softened you down  
'til you'll only do what he'll let.  
I started soft,  
but just look at me now.  
You are not ready for me yet.


	9. Martial Law

**Martial Law- A poem by Reno**

The sun runs 'round  
this barren town.

The city gets poor, while the guilty go free.

I hear the cries  
crawl through their eyes.  
I can't seem to make them want to breathe.

Soup kitchen runs out,  
some sleep without.

They love their beds of human debris.

No one cares,  
there are no wares.

They can't find the time to sit and eat.

The suitcase ties

around human flies.

Buzzing around, they pity their seed.

The hunger stings  
a pregnant teen.

Flesh on fire is the prettiest thing she's ever seen.

"Play ball and have fun!"

"Not this time son.

I've got to try and find some supper tonight."

"The neighbor looks sick.

She's eighty-six."

Is it murder if we're givin' 'em what they want?


	10. Yuffie's House

Yuffie's House- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

I imagine rose petals  
and neatly painted  
green walls.

I imagine love in buckets  
that line the halls...  
...my Valentine.

I imagine candy hearts  
falling down your  
luscious pipes.

I imagine how far it goes,  
your tongue on mine, like  
liquid honey.


	11. Vladimir Escher

Vladimir Escher- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

My nymphet of choice is etched on the walls  
of the staircase that stretches  
horizontally downwards.  
As I circle back to where I've been, I  
touch the face of every sign,  
every sketch of my Yuffie.  
The faces, innocent, increasingly  
hostile as I walk down, more  
so until it fades to joy.

Turn my eyes from all this way. It is proof  
that I am dastardly vile.  
Hide my face from your face, now  
the rays of sun fall flat at my feet, and  
I see you in my eyes by  
the vertical waterfall.  
The look in your eyes, an alloy of fear  
and knowledge of the Lilith  
within, it still betrays you.

It tells me that you require more love than  
I can give. My old adult  
skin breathes for your smooth young hands.  
Who could fail to recognize the demon  
angel in your calm footsteps,  
or the addiction in mine?  
Intertwined together, like a lizard  
inside this prison of bars,  
the math is simple enough.

Our paths, they cross and intersect with this  
blind fury and optical  
peace until, triumphantly,  
we are forced into shape, just as we are.  
Let the world know that your young  
innocence and my vain mind  
form a new Star of David they can't see.  
We could fall forever for  
'us', and never touch the ground.


	12. Blackbird

Blackbird- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

I see her

before she comes.

Blackbird, spread your British wings.

Fly home, runaway. Fly.

She rests her laurels

on paid time,

biting into a Cadbury egg.

Bastard.

The scent of her anger

will make me wretch

with violent trembling.

Oh happy day.


	13. Brackish Water Ottoman

Brackish Water Ottoman- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Water so deep, I'm wading in it.  
Bills to pay. Keep lights lit.  
Check. Off the list, and the creek did rise.  
Ode to a Jew girl's eyes.

The flood is in my bedroom.  
Feet still ache. Certain doom.  
Kick. Up my feet, like a tired artisan.  
Brackish water ottoman.


	14. Busy Day

Busy Day- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

A showing at 8: The painting elite.

Surrender at 9: From darkness I retreat.

Shooting at 10: Filming dreams in the sheets.

Late lunch at 2: Lay off the meat.

Addiction at 3: The odds to beat.

Barret at 4: Marketing me.

Guest at 5: Turn up the heat.

Dinner at 6: And theater seats.

Party at 9: People to greet.

Home at 11: The world at my feet.


	15. Driving Smooth

Driving Smooth With A Ghost Riding Shotgun- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Not as clear as you used to be,  
your pink has faded slightly.  
Your flowers always did  
smell like flowers.  
I don't know  
how you did it.

I don't want one,  
I don't need one,  
and it's so ironic  
that you don't even try.  
No longer selling…  
because of me.

You should want  
to crush me like  
I crushed your roses,  
but the roses are  
in your eyes…  
tender Aerith


	16. Foreigners

Foreigners- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Foreigners.  
They try to enter my head  
through the cranial turnstiles,  
having all their paperwork.  
Am I…

…wrong to not let them in?  
Not scared of change,  
but awkward, tingly,  
everyone having their passports,  
but no one going home.


	17. I Was Born For This

I was born for this- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

The feeling of holding off  
unfriendly hands  
as they try to restrain  
sets my nerves firing.

To feel like an animal,  
kicking and screaming,  
"Let me go!  
You won't take me down!"

The sense that I am  
as strong as three men  
floods my mind.  
I was born for this.

I will die for this.


	18. If They Catch Me

If They Catch Me- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

If they catch me, I'm so dead. Everything slips into your view by happenstance, and that's how it will always be remembered. If they catch me, I will walk out and not stop walking until I see sand. I want to walk that far, but I don't know how long my legs can take me. I don't know how much food I could pack to keep me. Yes, if they catch me, I'm lower than dirt, with no future to hope for.

But if they don't catch me,  
keep on doing...  
...they're not too good at catching.

But I still hop out of my chair.

(Catch me doing what, exactly?)

In the end, nothing really changes. A punishment waits for those who endanger, when there is no one in any real danger. Imperceptible.

Perhaps my sin will catch up to me when the files get corrupted...buy a new one.

Where are they going, what are they talking about, who's looking?

If I was a fly on this wall, watching over my own back, I would be watching over my own back.

When I write, I write. When I read, I read. When I surf the web...I surf water.

The sign says 'Shark!', but there are none there.  
The sign must be removed...it lies.  
The first day without the sign is the day the shark strikes.

Gosh, and I thought today was a free day!


	19. Looking Out The Turtle's Shell

Looking Out The Turtle's Shell- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

The book will write itself.

If I stare at the paper,

curled words will form,

and my mind writes the smiles

while my heart beats its wings.

Aeris is cute with a

plunger in her hand.

The reason it's dark:

It flows out from me.

Stories are my dropping

in a thousand cranial toilets.

Realities are plumbers.

We have fallen, all, into the cracks.


	20. On A Corner In Midgar

On a corner in Midgar- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Town, walking...  
straining to make it home  
with a burden on my shoulders.

The supply has run out.

Truth be told, I cannot,  
nay, will not, buy  
from anyone else, and  
the doctor's suspicious.

There is a young lady,  
staring at my Bar,  
just looking at it.

"This is nice."

I smiled and countered,  
"Yes, it sure is."

"I'd like to paint it,  
and maybe you too."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'd like to paint an image  
that depicts this bar,

and you."

"What does that require?"

"I'll need to look a while,  
really take it all in."

"Um...sure, go ahead."


	21. Rain Greased Fulcrum

Rain Greased Fulcrum- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

How am I  
supposed to feel  
when man hurts man again,  
when all I can offer  
are these six little lines?  
This is my Vietnam.


	22. Respirator

Respirator- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

I dream of flakes,  
white flakes of vicodin,  
streaming through the vent.  
Flakes come to respirate.  
Where do they all go?  
Going now to lay me low.

Dealing isn't dreamy.  
Phone rings violently  
inside of its cradle.  
Drown out the respirate.  
How much do we know?  
I am a young prancing doe.

So many people  
come and knock at my door.  
Never done this before.  
Is it me...Cloud...  
or could it be Reno?  
I swim in respirator flow.


	23. Restore Rise

Restore/Rise- An epic poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Restore.

Rise.

Two simple words like lemons squirting at the eyes.

Restore.

Rise.

Two evening sounds like women burning in their thighs.

Restore.

Rise.

Two viruses like helpless ones yet spread.

If they do nothing, how can we survive?

We, as full-term mothers, birth the day.

The night is our relaxing. The lines of

This stanza look like Charlie Brown's

Pitiful little Christmas tree.

It is too boring to wait, they tell,

For the watchman to let me from my cell.

I squirm like Dante thrust in hell,

Enamored with a lawn ornament.

It stares deeply at me still,

Fake flamingo, point is shrill.

'Happy 23rd!' on its bill.

My birthday comes and goes.

Cards from home, gifts from friends;

Others inmates, all fenced in,

Check the famous mailbox bin.

Nothing for me here.

So they've locked me in here for six months. Destruction of property, damaging a public building, vandalizing a religious establishment. I'm starting to really see the light, but it makes me wish to close my eyes.  
Die, Restore and Rise!  
Meet your most untimely end!  
Your day is nigh; the earthen fly.  
Restore and Rise, fall to die!

What gaiety is this? (Curious and Curiouser that!)

My cell block is a test subject:

Effect of yoga on delinquents.

I bend for time, and my awkward stance

Likens me to the Tower of Pisa.

My mind is cleared, my soul is clean.

Tell me, what is my name?

The chaplain came by my cell today.

His gray hair got in the way.

He brushed it to another place,

And brushed again to save some face.

He said that I should come tonight

To chapel service. I said 'Alright'.

To say the least, I was not impressed.

One girl's nodding off, and another hates to be here.

Every prayer says 'It's not fair.'

There's no farther now, I'm running out of fear.

Every fair says no to prayer.

The chaplain says Jesus

Is loving and kind,

But I know I'm not a Tuesday's Child.

The bread tastes like floorboard,

And the floorboard like bread,

But eating the ground

Means 'Off with your head!'

Cleanup duty is just alright.

My sweat drops flush on the pavement.

I've never been more happy

To have TV, not color,

Three channels, but one gets the news.

Are we all a part of a bruise

That's been pasted on us

By the guardians?

Are we shoveling

Money at money,

Fighting fierce fires

With water guns?

Is the first sign of total collapse

A sign that we're happy and poor?

Back To The Roots

Is fine for a few,

I am one, I confess, I confess.

But what are we doing

For the cause of another

By shacking up far away from home?

Is Mother Earth depressed?

Has she sunken yet?

Or is she defined by her

Sadist seed?

All the world empires

Shout out from their graves

That none of their monetary plans

Worked out like they should have,

Yet Capitalists

Still shake their fists

And say that we'll never go down.

But are we the rule

More than the exception?

Is longevity

Just a ruse?

And are we to fall

Where the cash used to be,

With no working plan

To be found?

Restore.

Rise.

I don't think they will die.

Restore.

Rise.

...be here longer than I.

Restore.

Rise.

Look down at the sky.

Rise.

Restore.

The eyes fall asleep.

I was released from prison after three months, since I had exhibited good behavior. Cloud Strife never visited, not once.

Don't say you know how I feel

Until you step into the closet

And take a walk in the shoes

Of every man and woman who's left theirs behind:

The Keds that were worn by a twelve-year-old girl, told that she's pregnant with eight on the way.

The Timberlands worn by the lady in Memphis who thinks that she's one of the guys. She tries out the rock climb and finds out too late, she isn't be as strong as a man.

The Nikes of the young man, a newlywed groom who loves his wife with all of his heart. But she's started talking nonsense from the top of her head, and he might have to put her away.

Why am I to care

About people everywhere

When I am trapped here in myself?

'Cause I am the Earth,

My spirit runs green,

And I beg to turn back into dust.

Seventh Heaven's still open.

A miracle, I'm sure.

I guess Yuffie cleaned up the place.

I want to look pretty

The first time I walk in,

But will this darkened form

Reject frilly lace?

I walk in dressed casual, and nothing has changed. Not even me.


	24. Snatched From Heaven

Snatched From Heaven- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

I was present at my birth,  
sitting in a chair  
in the corner, and  
drinking an appletini.

I could only watch. I had  
no regrets about  
ever being born.  
I watch my mother closely.

I get my thrills from watching  
her sweat, hearing her  
cry out, feeling her  
pain. It is the whole world's pain.

While I escaped from my dome  
of skin, my old soul  
fades. She was nervous,  
and started chewing ice cubes.


	25. Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder- A poem by Tifa Lockheart

Sometimes I wonder  
if I could ever cry again,  
ever be ashamed of myself,  
and wonder why I'm here again.

Sometimes I wonder  
if there's hope for someone like me,  
when this story will ever end,  
and if there's rehab for an addiction...

...to addictions.


	26. What Have I Done

What Have I Done?!- A poem by Tifa Marie Lockheart

Top of the morning,  
drop of the wave.  
Tip of the finger,  
lip of the cave.

Jolting my spine,  
bolting the door.  
Cry for diffusion,  
lie on the floor.

Harder and faster,  
martyr the dove.  
Folds of forever,  
hold on, my love.

Rock like a baby,  
socks on my feet.  
Phone home, Tifa.  
Moan to the beat.

Ringing the doorbell,  
singing 'I'm busy.'  
Humming, 'He isn't  
coming in, is he?'

Clean snow-white dress shirt.  
Reno appears.  
Jerk looks around,  
smirk to his ears.

I live, holding on.  
I give the invite.  
Sun in the window,  
fun in the light.

Throw me backwards,  
show me, you doll.  
Red-headed wonder,  
led through the hall.

Cuffed to the headboard,  
stuffed to the gills  
with Reno inside,  
stiff as the hills.

Clear trickle down,  
gear shifting slow.  
Tender blue eyes  
vendor the flow.

Zip up the pants.  
Lips, minor/major,  
land against fabric.  
Hand rolls dice/wager.

Kiss on the cheek,  
bliss at no cost.  
Call me your friend,  
all hatred is lost.

Careless daydream,  
fairness the same.  
Staying with eyes closed,  
Playing the game.

Flutter the eyelids,  
stutter your name.  
Keeping blind: stupid!  
Sleeping with the dame.

Not Reno at all,  
hot beads of sweat.  
I sense trouble if  
I haven't seen yet.

Grown up, eighteen,  
thrown through the thistle.  
Fat chance at escape.  
That man was Denzel!


End file.
